Dexter: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished V1
by A Rhea King
Summary: When Dexter kills a man to save a woman's life, he questions if he should have broken his Code and killed her too. Meanwhile, The Artist taunts Miami PD by releasing details to the press, making everyone his accomplice. WITH RITA
1. Chapter 1

Dexter  
No Good Deed Goes Unpunished  
By A. Rhea King

**Chapter 1**

I stopped my car outside the shack and killed the engine. I'd prepared this place hours ago for Gregory Hewitt, a pedophile serial killer. He got away with it because he had an alibi – logs showed he was logged into his work computer at the time of the murders. But I know he wasn't at work. He'd slipped out where there were no cameras, he'd killed them, and now he had to be killed.

Climbing out of the cool interior of my car into the muggy, humid Florida night was a slight shock to the system. It made me grab a breath and deeply inhale. I walked around to the back of the car and opened the trunk, and paused to stare at my victim. He would be out for another thirty minutes. That was plenty of time to prepare him for his final moments. I hefted him up on my shoulder, closed the lid and carried him inside, shutting the door behind me.

#

Abriella Juen struggled against the duct tape binding her hands behind her back. She felt around the trunk until her hand slipped across some sharp corner. She moved the tape over it and sawed until it broke free. She felt around the small, enclosed space, trying to find the emergency handle. But it was too dark for that. She realized she still had duct tape over her mouth and ripped it off. It sent sharp pain across the skin as the sticky backing tried to pull it away too. She searched again for the emergency handle.

The car came to an abrupt halt, tossing her against the back of the trunk. She rolled over, in a panic to find the lever. The lid opened and the snarling face of her husband, Carter Juen, stared down at her. He grabbed her wrists, lifted her out of the trunk, and dropped her on dirt but didn't let go of her left wrist. She hit and punched and kicked as he pulled her to her feet. He grabbed her hair, yanking back hard, putting her in an awkward position that made it impossible to fight.

"Did you really think you'd get _me_ arrested?" he asked her.

"BASTARD!" she screamed, yanking her head forward. She liked her long hair, but she would tear it out to save her life.

The action caught him off guard and he stepped back. She turned and in a quick motion slammed her knee into the soft, warm spot of his groin, shoving his testicles against the pelvic bone. He lost his grip on her arm to grab his crotch. Freed, Abriella took off running. In the distance she saw buildings.

"I'M GONNA KILL YOU FUCKING BITCH!" he screamed behind her.

She didn't look back. She focused on her breathing, on her legs pumping, like she did on the five-mile run she took Monday through Friday. Her run took her through deserted factory buildings.

She heard her husband behind her, closing in with longer strides. He was a runner like her; they had met running through a park when he'd run into her. There had been connection, dating, a proposal, marriage, abuse, and a son.

Abriella quickly shook the memory of her son out of her head. She had to stay focused if she wanted to stay alive. She ran out of a building and saw a maintenance shack with light coming through cracks. She zoned in on it.

#

The kill had been a good one. Satisfying. Greg threatened me until I plunged the knife through his aorta. It was soothing to feel the bone saw cut through the muscle and bone of his limbs.

I was focused. Centered. At peace.

(In hindsight, perhaps I was a little too focused, too centered, and too at peace.)

I didn't hear the approaching footsteps bringing change.

When the door busted open, I spun around in surprise. The light outlined a figure. I judged from the height and proportionate chest to hip width, it was a woman. In a few days I would learn her name: Abriella Juen, but at that moment she is a stranger about to see the _real_ me.

She pawed at the plastic, found the opening, and charged head first into my world. She was average built wearing a nightgown. Her straight waist length brown hair was tangled and disheveled. Her bare feet were covered in her own blood that was slowly mixing with Greg Hewitt's blood.

She stared at the half dismembered corpse of Gregory Hewitt for only seconds, but it felt like hours before she let out a blood curdling, night of the living dead scream!

Then her eyes found me. I must have looked like a monster holding a blood-covered bone saw in my hands and my apron and face shield coated in blood and muscle and Greg Hewitt's insides. Surprisingly the next scream was louder and higher and longer than the last.

Someone else entered the shack. The outline is fuller, but not obese, and taller than the woman. The physique told me this was a man. Had he been waiting for her? Had he come to rescue her? Was I going to have to break my Code to protect myself?

Later this man would have a name too: Carter Juen.

He found the opening much faster. If the body and I hadn't distracted her, perhaps Abriella would have had time to run from him or brace to fight back. She didn't have time for either. The man lunged and slammed her to the floor. He grabbed her head and began beating it against the floor.

It was rare for me to be thrown off so much that I couldn't think of a reaction, but for a few moments that's exactly what happened. What could this woman have done to deserve being beat so violently?

Then his eyes found my tools and with the fingers of one hand dug deep into throat and strangling her, he grabbed a knife with his other handle. He turned so I could see his face. I knew that look in his eyes. He was going to murder her.

"NO! NO!" she screamed, trying to get control of the knife.

"I AM NOT GOING TO JAIL AGAIN!"

Again? My surprise and shock was gone. I had to take it on gut instinct that Carter Juen fell under the Code. I dropped the saw, grabbed another knife, and drove it into his back, sliding it smoothly between his ribs and puncturing his left lung. The man screamed, dropped his knife, and tried to grab for the one in his back as he stood. I discovered he was much larger than I was in height and width but that had never stopped me before.

Now he saw me.

He picked up a cleaver from the shelf and lunged at me. I bowed my body, compressing my abs, and the blade sliced air.

In a fluid motion I grabbed the bone saw, and moved into his next swing, making one smooth cut through his throat, vertebrae and out the other side. The man looked surprised for half a second before his head fell away, and then his body thumped to the floor at my feet.

Spontaneous murder. It always surprised me how much I enjoyed that.

A soft moan reminded me I wasn't alone. I had another problem to figure out a solution to. I turned off the bone saw, sat it down, and walked around the table. The woman was on her stomach, trying to crawl for the door, leaving a bloody trail behind her. She looked back at me. I reached out to the shelf where my tools sat.

"Please. Please don't kill me," she begged, starting to cry.

Kill her? Why would I kill her? Had I misunderstood what I'd heard? My hand closed around the small syringe next to my tools, one filled with a sedative. She tried to get up and lunge for the door. I leapt, landing on her back and pushing her to the floor. I shoved the needle into her neck, injecting the sedative. She fell asleep almost instantly.

I got up, staring down at her. She was bleeding heavily, in danger of bleeding to death. She needed a hospital, but I couldn't take her to one. Not in the middle of the night. There would be too many questions that I wouldn't be able to lie my way out of. I remembered seeing a fire station on the way here.

I guessed it was probably around midnight. If they weren't on a call, the firemen would be asleep. I could leave the emergency phone outside off the hook and one of them would come down to investigate. That was an ideal plan.

"She could destroy you, Dex," Harry's voice said. He appeared across from me, staring down at her with me.

"I know," I told him, "but she doesn't meet the Code."

"I'm proud you're sticking to the Code, son, but this is dangerous."

"I know."

I picked her up, carrying her to a bench lined with plastic. First I had to get all traces of evidence off her.

#

Nina Batista looked at the door when someone knocked. She got up from the couch and opened it. Angel glared at her.

"Forget it," were the first words out of his mouth.

Her jaw tensed with anger.

"Angel, it's a good job. A great job. It'll provide for both of us. And it doesn't mean anything. It's just a piece of paper."

"Doesn't _mean_ anything?" he snarled. "You're asking me to say I don't want to be my little girl's father! That means a lot, Nina. She's my baby. I'm not about to give up custody just because you found a better paying job. You two have enough with your income and my child support."

"Angel, with this job we don't have to do _just fine_. I can pay for everything with my income and put all the child support into her college fund."

"I am not giving up custody, Nina, and you are not taking her out of Miami. That's the end of the conversation."

"Angel—"

"That is the end of the conversation." Angel turned and stormed back into the night.

Nina sighed, leaning on the door handle.

"Mom?"

She turned, finding Ally standing in the hall.

"Did I hear dad?" Ally asked.

She nodded.

"Were you two fighting again?"

Nina looked down. She didn't look up when Ally ran back to her bedroom. She shut the door and could hear her child crying. Nina leaned against the door, starting to cry herself.

#

The elevator opened and I pushed off the back with one hand, keeping a box of donuts balanced on the palm of my other hand. The day had started off well. Rita woke me before the kids were up. There had been sex. The children woke in good moods. I left on time to get donuts and arrived to find my usual parking spot wasn't taken.

I was still reeling from last night's double kill. It never occurred to me that during all this, I never once stopped to wonder what had happened to the woman. All I knew was it was time to begin searching for another victim.

I—

"Morgan," Sergeant Batista called.

I stopped, turning. Deb's desk was empty, so he meant me. He turned to me.

"Everyone else is out on cases. Put your donuts down and grab a forensic kit."

"You mean my blood kit?"

"No. I mean forensic. Masuka left us with two days notice for Las Vegas and doesn't get back until tomorrow. We got a call about a woman dumped at a fire station last night. She was beaten pretty bad, possibly raped, she's married, and no one can find her husband. Could be murdered. You're the only forensics I got right now."

And you never will find her husband, if that's who I killed last night. I have to talk my way out of this one.

"Angel, I—"

"Do I look like I'm asking? I'm you're fucking supervisor. Stop stalling and get your fucking kit!" He stormed out to the elevators.

Shit! So much for a great morning.

#

Hospitals always smell like death and bleach – not a very appealing combination. I followed Batista through the double doors of the emergency room. He flashed his badge at the nurse closest to the door.

"We were called about a possible rape."

"They're just finishing the rape kit. Wait here and I'll come get you when they're ready." She left the central 'staging area' and went into a room.

This hospital had taken lead from many across the country. Instead of curtained areas there were individual rooms. They did it to help reduce the noise, but in truth, it didn't help much. Pain and misery wasn't something you could just silence.

The nurse came to the door, motioning for us. I almost hesitated. I wanted to make up an excuse for why I couldn't go in, but that would only raise suspicion.

The nurse stopped us at the door. "She's really freaked out, guys. And men aren't high on her list of people to trust. Take it easy."

We went in and I stopped at the counter at the end of the room to set Masuka's forensics kit down. I'd processed four rapes during his other spontaneous vacations and knew what was needed.

"Hi," Batista said behind me. "I'm Detective Angel Batista, but you can call me Angel if you like." He paused.

I glanced back.

Her face was bruised and cut. There were dark bruises on her neck where the man had dug his fingers in to strangle her. Her wrists had bruises from him holding them so tightly. She was laid on her side, her hands pressed down hard against her stomach and her eyes fixed on an infinite spot on the wall. She didn't even see Batista. Was she catatonic? Is she were, my problem with her was solved. She could remain like that for years.

"Can you tell me your name?" he asked.

In a tiny, nearly inaudible voice she answered, "Abriella Juen."

I looked away when Batista smiled. "It's good to meet you."

I finally found a comb and piece of collection paper. I walked along the opposite side of the bed, watching her head turn so she could see me. Her eyes widened. Her whole body began to tremble. Silent tears started flowing. She remembered last night. She remembered me. Was this how everything ended? One loose end I had chosen not to kill because she didn't meet my Code?

"Shhh. Shhh. This is Dexter Morgan. He works with us. He won't hurt you."

I stopped and offered a smile. "I'd never hurt you." At least not with Batista in the room. "I'm going to comb your hair for trace." Even if I knew there wasn't going to be any. I had been very careful about protecting my identity before I left her at the fire station.

She jumped when Batista touched the top of her hand, looking up at him. I gently slipped the paper under her hair and began combing the long, dark brown strands. I could tell without a microscope she didn't dye her hair, this was its natural color. Something else I hadn't noticed is that it was uneven – like someone had grabbed a handful and ripped it out, say, for example, a man trying to kill her.

"The firemen said someone left the call box receiver off the hook and left you outside. Was it your attacker that left you there? Do you remember?"

She slowly looked back at me. I kept working.

"I remember running from my husband." She looked back at Batista. "Carter was going to kill me."

"Why?"

"He'd smothered our son when he wouldn't stop crying and I walked in on it. I told him I was going to call the police and before I could get down the hall, he grabbed me and hit my head against the wall. I woke up in the trunk of his car." She closed her eyes. Was she really trying to remember or did she really not remember what had transpired after that. "He stopped somewhere; I don't know where we were, and pulled me out. I got loose and ran and, uhm, then he caught up with me. He attacked me and started beating me, and then… Then…" She opened her eyes, staring at the wall. "And then…"

"And then what?"

She started crying harder. "And then I don't remember. I can't remember what happened. I don't know how I got to the firehouse."

But she did remember. She wouldn't have looked at me with such terror if she didn't. Why wasn't she giving me away?

"Do you know where Carter might have gone?"

She shook her head, looking up at him. "I don't have a clue."

He's in six biodegradable trash bags in the Gulf Stream, a feast for sea animals and bacteria alike. In a few weeks, not even a DNA test would identify him.

"Abriella, where is your son's body?"

She cried hard following that question. I pulled the paper away before it slid off and folded it. I returned to the kit and took out an envelope, wooden fingernail scraper, and another piece of paper. I'd scrape, but again, there was no trace.

"I don't know. He might still be in his crib. I don't know what Carter did with him."

Even my empty emotions were stunned by that answer. I turned, staring at her. Batista was leaning close, his hand gently cupped around her hand.

"Okay. Okay. I'll send someone over to look. We'll take him to the morgue if we find him, okay?"

She nodded. Batista stood up.

"Dexter, are you about done?"

"Just the fingernails. I don't know where her clothes are."

"I'll go ask the nurses." Batista patted Abriella's hand. "I'll leave them my card. If you think of anything or just want to talk, you call me, okay?"

She nodded.

Batista's phone rang. He looked at the screen and for a moment his face went dark with anger. Then he smiled at the woman and patted her hand.

"I'll be right back."

He left us alone. Even closed the door behind him. I took a deep breath and walked up the bed again. I slid the paper under her hands and began scraping. She was crying again, staring at me.

"I swear I won't…" she began. "Please don't kill me."

I stopped, looking in her eyes. She was terrified of me.

"If you haven't killed anyone, then there's nothing to worry about," I told her. What? Why was I telling her that? Why had I just revealed the most sacred rule of my Code to her?

She nodded. She glanced at the closed door, then back up at me.

"He is dead… I saw… His head… You did… Didn't you?"

I nodded.

She turned her head, pressing half her face into her pillow. "He killed his son. My baby. He killed him just because he wouldn't stop crying. He was colicky. Jason. His name was Jason after my father. He was so smart and…" She broke off to sob into her pillow.

I finished and folded the paper into the envelope. I watched her cry. I wanted to leave her, but I couldn't. Why couldn't I leave her?

I sat the envelope on a chair and pulled off my gloves. I reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. She latched onto my arm with both hands. Had I suddenly gone from monster to hero? I was certainly going to have to look into this couple and make sure I'd made the right decision.

My father appeared on the other side of the bed, watching her. He looked up at me. "She knows your secret and she kept it."

"Because I killed a man that wanted her dead and she's terrified of me."

"Perhaps she's a Lila."

"A psychotic bitch out to control everyone around her?"

"Perhaps."

I looked down at Abriella. I leaned over and she looked into my eyes.

"I take my secret very seriously," I told her.

The fear snuck back into her face. "I swear to take it to my grave."

I nodded, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "Make sure you do."

She nodded.

Batista opened the door, stepping in. He smiled at me; probably glad to see I was connecting with the victim.

"We gotta go. Are you done?"

I nodded, starting to pull away. She grabbed my hand and I looked back at her.

"Will you… Leave your card? Too?"

"I don't have one."

"His number will be on the back of mine," Batista said.

Thanks, Angel. After Lila and Miguel, I didn't trust anyone who knew the real me. They took advantage of it, used me, and eventually made me kill them.

"Thank you." She let go.

I collected the envelope and kit, and we left. I didn't look back. I didn't want to encourage her to contact me for any reason.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The Miami Sun Times had a glorious reputation for keeping readers entertained with news that was _mostly_ true. Owner and editor Kyle Cobb was notorious for printing stories that sparked emotions and frequent lawsuits, but Cobb was rich enough that lawsuits were no more nuisances than mosquitoes.

So when a serial killer began sending envelopes with case files detailing his 'artistic' murder scenes, Kyle Cob was more than happy to prints as much as the FCC allowed. He printed photographs that detailed the killers 'sculptures.' The paper reached readers before the police and by the time police arrived on scene, tabloid reporters, thrill seekers, macabre enthusiasts, and quacks had trampled and destroyed it. Grave robbers had stolen items that could have led to a primary murder scene.

Like all of the policemen trying to catch this killer, Detectives Debra Morgan and Joseph Quinn were furious with Kyle Cobb. The different offices around Miami had tried to reason with Cobb. They had sent PR reps to plead to the man's goodness – it was now determined he didn't have one. They had tried lawyers – his were better. Metro had tried both with no success. Debra and Quinn decided to try a different approached and arrived without an appointment.

"We're here to see Kyle Cobb," Debra told the receptionist.

"Do you have an appointment?"

As if rehearsed they both slapped their badges on the counter.

"We do now," Debra said.

The woman made a phone call, spoke quietly with someone, and then stood.

"Follow me," she told them.

The two were led through the newsroom and up to the mezzanine. They walked past offices to a corner office. On one side it looked down on the newsroom, down on downtown Miami on the other side. Cobb sat behind the desk, watching the two enter.

He stood with a large, white toothed grin. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was one that said he planned on giving them hell and welcomed this game.

"Good afternoon, detectives," he said. He motioned to a chair. "Won't you have a seat?"

The three sat.

"Would you like something to drink?" Cobb offered.

"No," they answered in unison.

Quinn led, saying, "Saw you ran another story on The Artist's latest sculpture this morning."

Cobb's smile grew. "Yes. He titled it The Lovers. Did you get to see it in person? It is a beautiful piece."

"You call two dead people who were frozen or died of carbon monoxide poisoning _beautiful_?" Debra snapped. "They had children who are still missing. A five and ten year old that this asshole is doing who knows what to, and you're helping him."

Cobb opened a drawer, pulled out a digital record, and turned it on before he sat it on his desk with the mic facing them.

"Detective Morgan, do you think you're experience with the Ice Truck Killer is helping this investigation? And how?"

Debra scorned. "Fuck you, asshole!"

"My wife wouldn't approve, but thank you for your ladylike response."

Debra lurched forward to launch a verbal attack, but stopped when Quinn laid his hand on her arm.

"Look," Quinn said, interrupting her from saying anything stupid. "We need to talk about when you get information from The Artist. We're not asking you to not print it, we're just—

"Oh. You're not?" Cobb crooned, grinning.

"Sir, do you have any idea what it feels like to freeze to death or die from carbon monoxide poisoning? Men, women, children – he kills them all the same way. Do you want me to describe it to you? On the record?"

"Oh no. You don't need to describe it. Didn't you read Monday's special? It sold very well, set us forward in sales for the year even. We interviewed four doctors and they gave excellent details about how the victims died. Perhaps your forensics team should read it."

"You really don't care that these people died," Debra stated. "You don't care that he murdered a twelve week old baby, or a five year old, or four teenagers? That he killed a pregnant woman? That doesn't bother you at all, does it?"

Cobb leaned back in his chair. "I didn't know them. Why should I care?"

Debra stood up, knocking over her chair. She stormed out. Quinn and Cobb stared at each other.

"All we're asking, Mister Cobb, is to let us get a firsthand look at the case file and photographs he's sent you, give us a crack at the crime scene before we lose all evidence."

Cobb slowly leaned his chair back. He laced his fingers together before putting them behind his head.

"No."

Quinn drew a slow breath. He stood up and pulled a photograph from his pocket. He sat it down in front of Cobb. The editor picked up the photograph, and then peered up at Quinn.

"That's your family, isn't it?" Quinn asked.

"Yes."

Quinn nodded. He took a newspaper out of his back pocket and sat it down in front of Cobb.

"Looks like your competition is calling you the Heartless Editor, after you printed this morning's newspaper and the scene was destroyed. The couple was his daughter and son-in-law."

Cobb looked at it, then up at Quinn. "I didn't know him."

"No. But he's asked us to start investigating you. I really hope we find something to put you in jail so we can catch a serial killer. Have a good day."

Quinn left.

#

Debra was waiting in their car. Quinn got in and headed down the street. They didn't talk right away. Debra smiled, looking at him.

"Do you think he bought it?"

"I thought the Herald editor was blaming us for his daughter and son-in-law being killed. How'd you get him to work with us?

Debra told him, "Someone owed me a favor and knew how to get to him."

"Oh yeah? How?"

She shrugged. "Don't know. But if this works, I don't care."

"I guess, on the plus side, if this doesn't work, we aren't any worse than we were."

Debra grinned. "And if it does, we might actually get a leg up on the mother fucking Artist!"

Quinn smiled, nodding.

Pulling up to the front of the Juen house, I was very intrigued. The home was enormous, so it didn't appear that the Juen's were in financial distress — in theory. If money the motivation, what would make a man snap and kill his own flesh and blood?

Could I be capable of that?

Batista got out and I followed with kit in hand. He stopped to ring the doorbell. When he looked back he must have thought I was questioning why he'd done that.

"She might be lying about all this," he said.

"Okay."

No one answered. He tried the door, but it was locked.

"I'm going around back. Wait here, Morgan."

He left. I waited until he was gone and then pulled my lock pick kit from my pocket. In five seconds I had the door open and having secured the kit in my pocket, was stepping inside the house. I waited for Batista – I could explain the open door, but not why I had gone searching the house without him. It gave me time to look over the photographs set on the hall table of Abriella, Jason, and Carter Juen. They looked like a happy couple. They smiled a lot. The baby was a nice touch. But I knew his eyes. I looked into eyes like his every day. This man had killed before. Abriella wasn't his first attempt, but she was his last.

"What the… That door was locked!"

I turned to face Batista. "No. It was just stuck."

He accepted the lie.

"Stay here. I'm going to look around."

I didn't argue, watching him go up the steps. I returned to looking over the photographs and getting to know the Juen's

"Morgan, come up here," Batista called.

I walked up the steps. I found him in the baby's nursery. A well-known cartoon with talking cars decorated the room – I'm glad Rita had wanted cowboys for our son. Batista stood at the crib. I walked up and stared down at the small, colorless, bloated, corpse lying in the crib. This was a strange feeling. Was I actually feeling sympathy?

"Could you do that to your son? Smother him because he was crying? What father can do that?"

I wouldn't do that to Harris. Ever. I might _teach_ him how to do it, but I would never do it to him.

Batista's phone rang. He looked at it and the same dark anger appeared. He answered it.

"Don't hang up," he growled at the caller. To me he said, "I'll go radio this in. Don't touch him, but start with this room."

"Angel, I'm the blood spatter guy, I really don't think—"

"As your boss, I'm not asking," Batista growled and then walked out.

I watched him leave. It was uncommon for him to be so moody. I sat the kit down, donned gloves, and went in search of evidence about which parent had actually killed Jason Juen.

#

Home.

I parked in the drive and climbed out of my vehicle. I could hear laughter in the backyard but went inside instead. I was met by the smell of spaghetti sauce. I sat my bag down and made a beeline to Harris' playpen. My son was sleeping but I picked him up anyway, startling him awake even as I cuddled him to my chest. It was strange that it didn't hit me until I was on my way home that Carter Juen was more of a monster than I was. I could never snap and kill my own son.

Harris cried for a few seconds before calming down in my arms.

"Dexter?" Rita questioned.

I turned, finding her standing behind me.

"I had the worst case today. This father… He smothered his son. The mother said it was because he wouldn't stop crying."

"That's awful!" she gasped. And her disgusted face told me that I'd revealed too much.

"I know. I had to see him. Rita, I just…" I pulled Harris back on my arm, smiling at his smile. "I just had to see my son. Hold him." I could see she wasn't melting much. So I kissed Harris' cheek and closed my eyes as I hugged him. I heard her come up and lay her hand on my arm. Most of the time this worked to diffuse my verbal goofs.

I looked at her. She had that dopey love look on her face.

"I bet you thought about him all day, didn't you?"

Nope. Only thirty minutes. "Yeah."

She hugged us both. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry I told you about it. The woman was so distraught. Her husband tried to kill her too, but she got away."

Rita looked up at me. "She was abused?"

Her husband beat her head on the floor and was about to kill her with one of my knives; yeah, there was abuse.

"Maybe she needs some support." Rita held a finger out to Harris. He latched onto it and smiled. She returned it. "Harris and I could go see her tomorrow. Well… Maybe just me. She might not be okay with a baby being there. What's her name?"

"Abriella Juen."

Rita looked up at me. "Supper is almost ready. Why don't you spend some time with Harris and the kids out back? I'll call you when it's ready?"

"Sure."

Rita turned and left. I headed for the back door with Harris. Having Rita watch Abriella was the best unintentional thing to happen since this started.

#

Debra had been pouring over the information in The Artist case files since seven that morning. It was disturbing how the people he'd frozen looked like wax figures instead of flesh and bone. And the people would have known they were dying until their heart stopped. Even the children.

She jumped when a file slapped down in the middle of her work. She looked up, staring at Cobb.

They were the only one in the conference room, surrounded by the photographs of the deceased and twelve crime scenes. She glanced at her watch.

"It's one in the morning, Mister Cobb. What are you doing here?"

"The Artists has the case files delivered at midnight." He motioned at the package. "Copy everything and get it back to me by three. I have to have it for the morning edition."

"It's evidence now."

He leaned on the table, staring into her eyes. "If you want this to work, we have to make it look like this never happened, and the police didn't know in advance."

Debra looked down at the package, realizing what he was saying.

"Do you understand, Detective?" Cobb asked.

"I thought you didn't care what happened?" she taunted, lifting her eyes to glare at him.

"This is me cooperating. If you want me to take it away, then fine, I'll—" He reached for the package.

Debra snatched it away.

"Okay. Deal. I'll copy everything and get it right back to you. Where will you be?"

"It always comes to my house. Don't send someone in a uniform, he might be watching."

"You think like a cop."

"I have to. It's how my paper stays number one in this city." Cobb left.

Debra tore open the envelope, emptying it on her desk, and hoping that somewhere in this would be a clue to who The Artist was.

#

The Artist.

What an ambiguous, but apt name for this serial killer. I could see his latest work as I passed through the crowd. He was a person of refined taste and perfection. He posed his victims and then killed them through freezing or carbon monoxide poisoning.

Perhaps the thing that made me admire him the most was that he compiled a perfect police case file complete with forensics and handed it over to The Miami Sun Times editor. Had he once been an officer? Or was he like me, and still with the police?

Coming out of the crowd I found the latest piece of work was two young, naked men, frozen in a wrestling pose. On the way over I'd heard this one talked about on the radio. The killer had dubbed this piece 'The Grecian Wrestlers.' They certainly looked like wrestlers painted on ancient Greek ware. Before death these two young men had been sculptured bodies. Their muscles would have rippled with every move. Young women, and men, would have followed their every move. They were the perfect vision of Greek wrestlers.

"There's no blood here," I announced so everyone could hear me. And then looked at Batista standing nearby. "Again."

Masuka looked at me and grinned. "Not feeling up to the challenge?" he asked.

"No. It's just that you're back, these pieces never have blood, so why am I here?"

Batista stormed up to me, pointing with his notebook in my face. "This is _not_ a piece, Dexter. It's a crime scene with two victims. Do not give this asshole what he wants."

His mood hadn't improved.

"Okay. But there's no blood."

"Over there. Behind the crowd." Batista pointed toward a tool shed with his notebook.

I headed for the building, pushing through the crowd. As I passed through the fringes I could see the wall. And on it, was a message painted in rusty red. It was the right color of blood that had dried in the sun. I sat my kit down and snapped off photographs.

I stared at what was written: _To take refuge with an inferior is to betray one's self._

Clearly he was talking about someone who had betrayed him, but who? Someone who was going to regret it, I'm sure.

I picked up my kit and approached the wall. With a swipe of a swab and spritz of luminal I found blood in the writing. I looked up at the wall. The Artist had made someone bleed? Was he getting bored with his sculptures?

#

_Watching the detectives… He can't be wounded 'cause he's got no heart…_

They were moving around the squad room like bees, desperate to find The Artist before he left them another art piece. It wasn't going to be any time soon. After all, if he'd left something useful at a crime scene, I would have found him first, and he would have been my victim tonight.

My phone rang and I grabbed it on the second ring.

"Dexter Morgan."

"D… Dexter?" a woman said. She sounded uncertain.

"Yep."

There was a long pause. So long I thought she'd hung up. Then I heard a soft sob.

"You're married? With a son?"

Abriella. Rita must have gone to visit her. Perhaps having my wife reach out to Abriella wasn't such good idea. I hadn't foreseen her trying to contact me.

"Yes."

Another long pause. She wasn't much of a talker.

"I… I swear I won't tell anyone. Please. I won't let anyone know… What I saw… You doing."

I lifted my chin. "I believe you." Did I really? My secret had destroyed many people.

"Rita told me about her ex-husband, Paul. She said he was arrested for drugs and died in prison. Did… You… Do that?

I weighed my options. It was chosen for me when Debra walked in.

"I have to go," I told Abriella. "We'll talk about this another time."

Abriella wasn't ready for the conversation to stop. "I'm being released in an hour. I'm going… Home."

"That's good to hear."

Deb motioned me to hurry. She had something important to talk to me about.

"I'm going home where my successful lawyer husband that everyone adored murdered my helpless son and then tried to kill me. How is that good to hear?"

I was surprised by how fast she turned from scared to angry. But given her circumstances, I wasn't surprised.

"I guess it's not then."

"His family has hired a lawyer. He was here and questioned me about his disappearance. I told him what I told the detective, but he didn't seem to believe it. I'm worried he's going to find something. What should I do?"

"Dex, get off. I need to talk to you," Deb whispered.

"I need to go. I have work."

She didn't hang up. She told me, "Dexter, after what I saw you do, the last thing I expected was to wake up alive in an emergency room. Clearly you have some set of morals, however twisted. And you're used to riding both sides of the law. The worst I've done is get a speeding ticket. I don't know how to deal with this. Help. Me. Because if I mess up and they try to arrest me for his murder, I am not going down alone."

A threat. Abriella was continuing to surprise me. "Meet me tonight at Jim's Wing Shack on twenty-first. Eight o'clock." I hung up before she could reply and turned to Debra. "What's up?"

"Blood from the wrestler scene. What do we have?"

"Oh…" My mind was still on the call and I had to quickly reorganize my thoughts. I found the report and gave it to Debra. "It was bovine mixed with a water-based paint."

"So he probably works in a slaughter house."

"No. The ratio of blood to paint you could squeeze from a roast, but a field test would still be positive for blood. The Artist just wanted us to think he'd made someone bleed, but in reality, he went to a store, bought a roast, squeezed out blood, mixed it with paint, and probably ate the roast."

She threw the results on my desk. "Fucker. I really hate this guy." She stormed out.

I didn't. It was an ingenious misdirect. Here's one hand, watch it, while the other hand is busy stealing your money, keys, life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

I entered leisurely, looking for Abriella. She was sitting at the back, near the exit door. Did she plan that? Her bruises looked darker than before and her hair was cut short, hiding that it had been ripped.

As I crossed the room she looked up and held my eyes. There was fear in her eyes. That's when I knew she'd chosen this seat by a door for a fast escape if she needed it. At least we had the same amount of trust in each other.

I sat down, our eyes never leaving the others until a teenage waitress came up.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"A cola."

"And to eat?"

"Nothing. Thank you."

"You, ma'am?"

"Just water, nothing to eat." Abriella didn't sound scared. Her voice was steady and rich but all I remembered of her voice was her scream. I would remember that scream forever.

The waitress left us alone. Our eyes returned to each other's.

"I've never lied while breaking the law. I don't know what to tell this lawyer."

"You haven't lied."

"I told them I don't remember after I got away and I do."

"That's not a lie, that's omitting details. Abriella, you have a concussion and were severely beaten; no jury in the country would fault you for not being able to remember things."

"But—"

"No, Abriella. Don't change your story. If you start changing it now, people start asking questions and doubting your honesty."

A tear slid down her face and she dipped her head, turning it toward the wall. She was embarrassed to let people see her cry. She didn't like to show weakness, something I hadn't expected to see in her.

Instinctively, to get her attention, I reached out and put my hand on her arm. I felt her immediately tense. Her eyes instantly turned from fear to hate. She jerked back both arms and put her hands in her lap.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that, but you have to trust me Abriella."

"Trust you?" She leaned in. In a whisper that should have been a yell, she asked again, "TRUST YOU!? I caught you chopping up one man, and watched you decapitate another! How the fuck am I supposed to trust you?" More tears. This time there was no shame. "I'm scared to death of you!"

That was a logical and appropriate rebuttal.

The teenage waitress returned with our drinks. I smiled, but it didn't change her hesitant look. She could sense something was happening, even if she didn't know what. She sat the drinks down and quickly left. I saw her stop another waitress, whisper something, and both looked at us. I had to get Abriella under control before people came to help her, and expose me.

I leaned on the table, holding her gaze with mine.

"Did you know your husband was accused of murdering two women before you?"

She stared. She slowly shook her head.

"And the list of assaults on his previous two wives and multiple girl friends has to be at least ten pages. He also had been under investigation for the disappearance of two girlfriends. He would have killed you. I saved your life by killing him."

Now that's something I never thought I'd hear myself say.

"What about the man on the table? What was he guilty of?"

"Sexually assaulted and murdered eight girls under ten. Got away because he always said he was at work and logins and cameras showed it, but there was an exit not covered by cameras or security. He had opportunity."

She pulled napkins from the dispenser and wiped her tears. We sat for several minutes after that while she stared at the napkin, perhaps debating what to do about me.

"No one should be murdered," she whispered. "There isn't an exception to the commandment."

It sounded more like she was telling herself than me, so I didn't reply. What commandment was she talking about?

With her tears dry, she collected herself some and looked back at me. "They weren't your first."

There was no question in it. She knew without me answering. Miguel had known. Lila had known. My father had known. We were entering dangerous, dark territory now. Was there about to be a request?

I didn't answer.

She nodded, looking at me. "You had the place covered in plastic. That would have taken time. You'd planned on that guy on the table. Carter was just a bonus, wasn't he?"

I nodded. She knew me. There was no need to lie right now.

"Why were my clothes changed?"

"You had Carter and Gregory's blood on you. Usually I'm the one that tests that, but I didn't want to take the chance someone else might – like a prosecuting attorney. I changed your clothes, nothing else. I'm not a sexual predator."

She glared at her napkin again. "That makes me feel _all_ better."

"It wasn't meant to. It's a fact."

"Are you sure what I've told people so far will stick?"

"Yes. If you don't change it in any way. If they press charges, you'll need a lawyer."

"I know."

I took out my wallet and dug out a business card. Batista had given me this man's card right after Doakes had attacked me in the lab, in case I needed it. I never did. That problem went away with a stroke of fate. I sat the card down on her side of the table.

"Call this man. Tell him Detective Batista sent you."

She just stared at the card.

I leaned on the table and she looked up at me.

"I've read your police record. You haven't hurt anyone. You are safe."

"I guess I have o believe you. Thank you for meeting with me, Dexter," she said.

That's my cue to leave. She was done talking to me.

"If you need anything, just call."

She picked up the card, but didn't say anything. I got up, putting two dollars on the table for the drink. I turned to leave.

"Dexter."

I turned. She was looking at me again. There was no fear, or anger, or any emotion on her face. Why was that?

"Thank you for coming and pretending to sympathize. I appreciate it."

"Pretending?"

She stood up next to me. "Serial killers rarely feel emotions. It's all just a ploy to fit in."

Who the hell was this woman? How did she know about serial killers?

She walked around me, leaving first. I was very confused by her. What did she want? What was it going to cost me?

#

Rita stopped in front of the large house, watching movers leaving it with a couch. She got out, pulled Harris and his carrier out, and headed inside. Four more muscular men were loading up boxes and furniture, heading for the two moving vans waiting outside.

"Excuse me," she said, stopping one. "Have you seen Abriella Juen?"

"In the kitchen."

Rita walked around them, heading in the direction he'd pointed. She came in finding Abriella packing dishes and crying.

"Hi," Rita said.

Abriella looked up at her and quickly looked away. She was searching for something.

"Hi," Abriella said.

She pulled a tissue box from a box and ripped several out to wipe her eyes and nose.

"You're moving?"

She nodded. "I can't stay here. I keep thinking about…" Abriella burst into tears again.

Rita sat Harris and his carrier on the counter and wrapped her arms around Abriella. She sank to the floor with her.

"He hasn't come back, has he?" Rita asked.

"He's not… No."

"I doubt he will."

Abriella nodded. She sat up, sitting back against a cupboard. Rita gave her hand a squeeze.

"I know he won't come back. Dexter said he wouldn't."

Rita was surprised by that. "Dexter said that?"

Abriella nodded. "He told me that if he was going to come back, he would have already."

"I didn't know you and he were talking."

Abriella looked up at her. "Oh… He… He didn't mention it?"

Rita lifted her eyebrows, shrugging slightly.

"Probably didn't think about it. I've called him at work a few times to ask how I should handle things. Like with Carter's family's lawyer trying to pin his disappearance on me. Dexter didn't know who to help me with it, but he knew a lawyer who could help me. Rita…" Abriella looked up at her. "Please don't be upset. I don't think I would have made it through this without him helping me. He's been an amazing friend through all this."

Rita smiled. She squeezed her hand again.

"My husband is a wonderful man, and he doesn't make friends very easily. I'm perfectly okay with you being his friend."

Abriella smiled.

"Ma'am."

The two looked up at the mover standing in the doorway. "You didn't pack the baby's room. What do—"

Abriella broke down again. Rita looked up at him.

"Leave that room. Just get everything else."

He nodded and left. Rita got up and picked up Harris from his carrier. She sat down next to Abriella, putting her arm around her. Abriella cried against her shoulder.

"We'll get you through this, Abriella," Rita assured her.

#

Sitting near the elevators gave Debra a view of who came and went. When she looked up from her computer and saw Nina Batista walk off, and then past her, she felt trouble brewing.

Nina walked up to her estranged husband's desk and slapped a thick packet of papers down. He looked up from the case file he'd been engrossed in at her, and immediately put on his fighting face. He stood, grabbing the papers.

"I told you never to come to work."

"Sign them."

He grabbed her elbow to lead her to the conference room. She jerked her arm away, stepping back.

"Sign them."

"No," Batista snarled. He grabbed her hand and slapped the papers in it. "Get out of her and don't ever come to my work again."

"If you don't sign them, I will force you."

"Oh? How?"

"I'll prove you're incompetent."

"You have nothing against me."

"I have plenty. Sign the papers."

"Get out."

"Sign the papers, Angel!" she yelled.

He didn't look around the room. He grabbed her elbow and held on when she tried to pull away. Batista marched her back to the elevator, tapping the button.

"We are going. You can't stop me."

He turned, pointing a finger in her face. "You take my daughter across the state line I will file kidnapping charges, Nina. I won't hesitate. Don't ever come to my work again."

The elevator dinged and he escorted heron, and then backed out. The two glared at each other until the doors closed. He turned and walked back into the squad room. He stopped, looking around him.

Everyone quickly ducked his or her heads, going back to work or pretending too. He met eyes with LaGuerta. She motioned him into her office and he obeyed. The blinds went closed. Quinn and Debra exchanged a look, and then went back to work on The Artist case.

#

I walked into a trap.

Opening the door the children ran to great me, healthy, happy, full of energy. Then came Rita with a kiss and hug, and Harrison being passed off to me. He greeted me with a happy laugh and some unintelligible burble. I hugged him. They moved away and I found Abriella sitting at the table. Her hand was wrapped around a glass of iced tea. Her bruises and cuts had faded some, but it was still obvious her husband had wanted her dead. She wasn't looking at me; she was staring at something on the floor.

"Abriella moved out of her house but hasn't found an apartment yet. I invited her to stay with us until she can find one."

My secret keeper was going to be sleeping in the next room? This had to be a twisted joke. "Oh. Okay," I told Rita. "You're always welcome here, Abriella."

Abriella looked up at me. She offered a fake smile, which I returned with an equally fake smile. At least we both knew the other was doing this to continue the charade and appease Rita.

"She made dirt!" Cody told me excitedly as he and Astor ran into the kitchen with Rita.

I sat down next to Abriella.

"You made dirt?" Who makes dirt?

"It's, uhm, a dessert." Abriella explained looking at her lap. She held her glass in her lap with her hands tightly wrapped around it. Even quieter she added, "It's good, but you don't have to have any."

I saw Rita out of the corner of her eye. She was giving me a look that screamed '_You're being rude_!'

"I'll try it. Anything once, right, kids?"

"Look what she brought it in," Astor said.

I turned some, staring at the new blue flowerpot Astor held up. It had a bright colored flower sticking out of the top and two gummy worms sticking out of the 'dirt' dessert.

"Maybe we should get a garden spade to serve it?" I asked.

The entire kitchen went silent. The kids and Rita stared at me as if I'd just exploded with a line of cussing. I had no idea what I'd done wrong.

Luckily the oven timer saved me. Rita began directing us and the awkward moment was forgotten.

#

The kids were outside. The neighbor children had instigated a two-block game of hide and seek. They would play until we called them, but since it was a Saturday night, and the children were happy, engaged in physical activity, untethered from their computers, televisions, and video games, that would be well after dark.

We sat in lawn chairs on the front lawn in a half circle around a plastic table, sipping margaritas. Rita had set up Harris' 'corral' and he was busy picking at grass and trying to catch bugs. She sat between Abriella and me – perhaps she didn't trust Abriella as much as she claimed. Did she feel this other woman was a threat?

"I never got to ask you. How was group yesterday?" Rita asked.

"It was upsetting."

Rita leaned toward her. "I thought you liked the group."

"I do. They're really great. It's just that a couple days ago this woman there came in with fresh bruises. Last night she came in with a broken nose and arm. We tried to talk her into going to a shelter, but she wouldn't go. I saw on the news this morning the police found her in an alley, beat unconscious. She's in the hospital now, scared but still planning on going back to him." She shook her head. "This guy is such a good liar and the police believe that he didn't do this." She looked right at me, adding, "He's going to do it to her again, maybe this time kill her."

Was she asking what I thought she was asking? My pulse picked up when I thought of killing this man.

"You can't do anything about it, Abriella," Rita told her. "I know you want to, but you can't."

Abriella let out a soft sigh. "I wish the police would. I wish they could dig around in his past, find his skeletons – I know there's got to be something on this guy that could get him arrested for at least one night." She lifted an eyebrow. "Someone needs to give him his due."

The time had come, hadn't it? Like everyone else who learned my secret, she was expecting payment for keeping it. But if this man was a murderer, and met the Code, was that a bad thing?

"What's his name?" I asked.

"Does it really matter?" Rita asked. She was giving me her '_You're being rude_!' look again. I was not earning points with her tonight.

"I could ask Deb to dig around in his past. If there's something there, she might be able to get him arrested for a night," I lied, "but I have to have a name for that."

Rita's look vanished into a smile that spoke of how she appreciated taking interest in Abriella's problem. She would let me get the name now.

"Devin Eskew," Abriella told me.

I gave a nod. Devin Eskew was about to become a problem of the past.

#

I found Devin as he left work. He was manager of inventory at a factory outside of town. I followed him to a bar on the seeder side of town. He parked his SUV on a street with a broken streetlight and walked to the front to meet his twin brother. Twin? I didn't see that coming.

While he was getting drunk, I had time to think. I'd pulled up Abriella's records again, this time with her maiden name. The woman of that lifetime had one speeding ticket, and just barely at that. The cop that pulled her over must have been having a bad day – who gives a ticket to someone doing three miles over? Something about Abriella bugged me.

"You're thinking of Abriella again," Harry said, appearing in the passenger seat next to me.

I nodded.

"She accepted who you are awfully fast."

"It's more than that."

"She hasn't given your secret away and she asked you to do this. She might be like Miguel, wanting to get blood on her hands. Then ask you to teach her, and then break the Code, forcing you to kill her, too."

"She told Rita we were friends. Why would she do that?"

"Trying to lure you into a false sense of security."

I sighed. "Maybe."

Devin walked out of the bar with his brother. They parted at the door. His brother headed down one way; Devin toward his SUV.

I got out and moved stealthily toward him. He pulled out his keys, dropped them, fumbled to pick them up, almost fell over, and finally hooked the ring on a finger. He was in no shape to be driving, but I would take care of that, too. He found the right key just as I plunged the needle into his neck and pushed sedative into the vein. He gasped, briefly, and then passed out. I smiled a little, already feeling euphoria for what was to come.

#

I spun around on the bar stool, waiting for Devin to wake up. He lay pinned to a pool table in a deserted bar. Over the last six months the bar had been given numerous health code violations, but selling to minors was the last straw that shut them down. It had been looted, but they hadn't been able to move out the pool table that was bolted to the floor.

Displayed around Devin were pictures of his victims: the man whose throat he'd slit, the woman whose head he'd indented, the girlfriend he'd put in the hospital. They were there to watch his execution, and judge him for his sins.

Devin turned his head and woke up suddenly. He pulled against his restraints – they weren't going to give.

"Hello, Devin," I crooned as I got up and approached the table.

"Who… What… Where am I? Who are you?"

"Who I am doesn't matter to you. They do." I pointed at the photographs.

He turned his head, staring at them.

"Did that fucking bitch send you after me?" He must be referring to the girlfriend he'd beat; the same one that still wanted to go back to him after he'd broken her nose, arm, and ribs. "I'm gonna—"

"Kill her?" I interrupted. I hopped onto the pool table next to him. God I loved this job! "I'm afraid you won't be around long enough for that."

"I can pay you three times what she paid you to kill me."

I stood and began circling him. "This is a charity case. Devin," I leaned over him. "What's it like to bash a person's head in?"

Before he could answer I crouched, sliced his cheek, and with a pipet, pulled out a few ounces of blood from the incision.

"What the fuck!?" he screamed.

In front of his face I added a drop of blood to a slide and dropped a coverslip over it. The blood bloomed out – a sight that never failed to thrill me.

"I'm feeling generous today, Devin," I told him, smiling.

He looked hopeful. He misunderstood what I meant by that. What a wonderful game!

"Anything you want, it's yours."

"_Anything_ I want?"

He hesitated.

I interrupted him before he could answer, "I want you to disappear. I'm going to get exactly what I want."

I jumped off the table, grabbed a cleaver and a thin blade knife. I held one up on either side of his head. "I'll give you a choice. A quick death," I shook the cleaver. "Or a slow death." I looked at the thin blade for a second. "Which do you prefer?"

"FUCK YOU, MOTHER FUCKER!" Devin screamed.

I grinned again. "Slow. Good choice." I dropped the cleaver and gripping the knife with both hands, lifted it over my head.

"No! NO! Fast! I want fast!"

"Too late." I plunged the knife into his heart.

He gasped and gurgled on his own blood. A fine mist of blood expelled from his lips and blood began frothing on the corners of his mouth.

And then he did something none of my victims had ever done. He whispered, "I'm… Sorry."

He was gone, and I was stunned.

Harry appeared next to me. "He wasn't really sorry."

"You don't know that."

"They are never sorry. He would have done it again."

"We don't know that."

"You can't let that stop you, Dexter."

I looked at him. "Ever since I met Abriella, strange things have happened. One after the other."

"Coincidence. She's not your friend."

"Maybe." I looked at Devin before I retrieved my bone saw. I flicked it on and went to work.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Nina slowed to pull into her driveway, looking at the car parked on the street. She shut off the engine, staring at the house. Through the living room windows she could see Angel and Ally on the couch. She drew a breath and got out, grabbing her purse off the front seat. She walked up to the door, paused to get a breath of nerves, and entered her house.

To her surprise the television wasn't on. There wasn't any radio blaring. The kitchen was dark – Angel wasn't attempting to impress her with his miserable cooking. Father and daughter sat on the couch, staring at her.

"Hi," Nina said.

Ally looked from her mother to Angel. She got up and kissed her father's cheek. He smiled, and when she hugged him, he hugged her back.

"I love you, daddy," Ally told him and then disappeared into her bedroom.

Nina dropped her purse on a table by the door and walked to a chair. She sat down, watching him. He looked different tonight.

"Ally and I had a long conversation tonight," Angel told her.

"About what?"

"Everything. It made me realize something, though."

She played his game. "What's that?"

"She's growing up fast. She said that she's read some _neat_ things about the school she'd be going to in Washington D.C. Mainly their band and equestrian club. I guess your dad said he'd get her a horse if she went to school there, and riding lessons."

She nodded.

Angel looked down. "I'm not giving up custody. She's my daughter. Tomorrow, after I get off work, we can meet at my lawyer's office and go over the custody agreement. I want her here for Thanksgiving and Spring Break, every other Christmas, and two months every year."

"No. I won't do every Thanksgiving, Angel. I—"

"I'm telling you to go to Washington D.C. and take the job, Nina, and you want to argue if I get her every Thanksgiving?"

"Well… Yes. I want her for the holidays too."

Angel smiled. That was unexpected.

"What?" she asked.

"We'll discuss it tomorrow, but we have to come to an agreement. Ally said you have to give them a decision by Friday." Angel stood. "Okay?"

Nina watched his face. She was half expecting him to start laughing or tell her this was a joke. It never happened.

"Why the change of heart?"

Batista sighed. "You've been hearing about the serial killer, the Artist?"

She had. She nodded.

"I worry about her here, where people come and go so fast. Your dad's neighborhood is a lot slower, and it at least feels safer. She'll be happy there."

"You know something about the case?"

Angel shook his head. "We have nothing. Not a damned thing. That's makes me want to send you two somewhere safer. I have to go say good-bye to Ally. Meet me tomorrow at four?"

She nodded.

Angel went down the hall to his daughter's bedroom and disappeared inside. Nina smiled and relaxed. Knowing that he was giving up being close to his daughter just to keep her safe, perhaps she could agree to Thanksgiving.

#

Debra and Quinn walked off the elevator, each carrying a coffee and heartburn burrito. They could see LaGuerta, Batista, and Deputy Chief Matthews in LaGuerta's office with a man in his fifties.

Debra sat her coffee and burrito on her desk. "Haven't seen an all brass meeting this early in the morning in a while."

"No shit," Quinn commented as he headed for his desk.

Debra sat down and focused on what she was going to do today. She looked up when the door opened.

"Morgan, Quinn, come on," Batista said as he left the room with a file in hand and headed for the elevator.

The two jumped up and followed him onto the elevator.

"What's going on?" Debra asked.

"The Artist has left us another _art piece_."

Quinn and Debra looked at each other.

"I didn't hear anything about it on the news this morning," Quinn said.

The door opened and they walked off.

Batista told them, "He's changed his m.o."

#

An old desk sat in the middle of a palm tree grove. The desk looked like a strong wind could blow it over. Behind it was an old wood desk chair occupied by Kyle Cobb. But he wasn't smile and raping people of their newsworthy stories. He sat still, his hazy eyes staring at the typewriter his blue fingers rested on. On one side of the typewriter was the morning edition of the Miami Sun Times. On the other a green hood lamp.

Debra and Quinn stared at the crime scene. They had arrived at the scene before any civilians had found it. It had been cordoned off just as word got out about the latest work of The Artist.

They didn't acknowledge Masuka when he approached.

"Isn't that the Miami Sun Times editor?" Masuka asked.

Debra nodded.

"Yeah," Quinn answered.

"Why wasn't it printed in the Miami Sun Times? Even if he was dead, I'd think they'd still print it."

"The Artist sent his file to the Miami Herald editor. He's refusing to use the packages in his paper. He's printing a letter in this evening's edition stating he refuses to print anything The Artist sends him and will be turning each package over to us. He doesn't want to end up like this."

"That's a fucked thought," Masuka told them. "Cobb was like The Artist's best friend and he still murdered him."

"Yeah. After he brought the case file to us before using it in his newspaper," Debra pointed out.

Quinn shook his head. "Serial killers don't have friends, just victims who don't deserve to die."

Masuka nodded, and then headed into the crime scene.

#

"Excuse me," someone said.

Debra and Masuka looked up from the lab results Masuka was explaining to her. The woman standing before them had a faded black eye, a healing split lip, and looked uncomfortable. But more than that, she was a hero to Masuka. Masuka suddenly grinned and Debra almost dropped the file when he walked toward her, extending his hand.

"Abriella Juen!?" Masuka said, offering a wide smile.

Abriella looked surprised. "Have we met?"

"No. No. I just… You lectured at the conference in Minneapolis last January. You talked about those two big cases you profiled for New York Police. The one that pushed people in front of subways, and that one in the bay that would tie people's ankles together, tie the rope to a bridge, and then shove them off. If the fall didn't kill them, they'd drown. You're like the best profiler in the country!"

Abriella almost smiled. "Thank you."

"Are you coming to work for us? I'd _love_ to work with you. You are so amazing."

"No. I've retired."

"Oh… Why?" Masuka asked.

She dodged the question. "I'm looking for Dexter Morgan. Is he here?"

"I'll get him," Debra offered. She headed toward the back; unaware she was about to tip her brother's world.

#

I looked up when Debra opened the door. I'd been focused on researching my next kill.

"There's someone here to see you and you better go save her before Masuka covers her with drool. She's like his hero or something."

I looked out my window and snatched a breath. What was Abriella doing here? Was she here to point me toward another person in need of disposing? Or was she here to— Wait…

"Masuka's hero?" I looked back at Debra. "Why is she Masuka's hero?"

"She's Abriella Juen."

This I knew. I stared at Debra.

"Seriously? You don't know who Abriella Juen is?"

I shook my head. All I knew of Abriella Juen was she hadn't killed anyone, she was currently living under my roof, and she was keeping my secret for some reason.

"She's a renowned criminal profiler, Dexter. The department tried to get her for the Bay Harbor Butcher case. She turned us down, said she'd retired since she'd had a baby. Jesus, Dexter, do we even work for the same department?"

A renowned criminal profiler was keeping my secret? No wonder she freaked out the day she was released from the hospital. She was used to catching people like me, not hiding us. This was bad. Was she setting me up? Preparing to hand me over to the police when there was enough evidence? Or had she become blood-hungry like Miguel? I should have just killed her!

"She can come back," I told Debra.

Debra left and spoke to Abriella, and she came back. She shut the door behind her and then turned to me.

"We have to talk. Somewhere not here. Somewhere close. And now."

Was she was angry with me? "What's wrong?"

"NOW!" she barked, keeping her voice down.

"We can talk on the roof."

"Fine."

We left through the back door. I didn't want anyone asking why we were leaving. I took her up the stairs, again to avoid people. We came onto the roof and I turned to her.

"What's wrong?"

"Remember Devin Eskew?"

"Yes. You said—"

"He has a brother, Dexter, who filed a missing persons report and is accusing Devin's wife of killing him. Devin has disappeared without a trace. All that they've found is his car at a bar he went to last night. Where is Devin Eskew?"

"He's gone."

"Gone?" She cocked her head. "Gone where?"

I was surprised by these questions. She knew full well where he was.

"In the ocean."

She caught her breath and turned in a slow, complete circle. Back to face me.

"_Why_ did you kill him?"

"You asked me to."

"What? When?"

"Saturday after supper. You said—"

"I am fully aware of what I said, Dexter. And that night I said _nothing_ about wanting him dead!"

"You said 'and give him his due.' You were asking me to kill him."

"NO I WASN'T!"

"What else would that have meant? Abriella, it's okay that you asked. I didn't mind you asking."

"_I_ MIND DEXTER! ESPCIALLY SINCE I NEVER SAID TO KILL HIM!" She put her hands on her head, as if she was about to rip it off.

I could only remember my father's reaction to seeing the person I'd murdered. Was this going to end like that? She had seen me dismember a person. She knew I'd killed three men now. Was it going to destroy her too?

"WHAT THE FUCK!?" bellowed out of her. Her hands flew down as fists that hit hard on her hips, and remained in fists for a brief moment. Then she stormed up to me and in a fast movement, she slapped me. Where her hand hit stung, but it was the fact she slapped me that stung worse. It also lit my anger, and I turned my head to tell her never to do it again. But I lost my words when I found her in my space, her face in mine, and her face reflecting pure rage.

"I never said anything close to I wanted him dead. You twisted my words just so you could justify murdering him."

Had I completely misunderstood the signs? I found that hard to believe. All the people who had ever learned my secret, my own father even, had wanted me to kill. Encouraged me to kill. Enabled me to kill.

"Explain to me how what I said became so twisted you thought it was code for I wanted him murdered," she quietly demanding.

"You said he hurt your friend and put her in the hospital, that he was a good liar and the police believed he wasn't responsible for hurting her and that next time he was likely to kill her. And you wanted someone to give him his due." I hesitated, because now I wasn't certain I'd even done the right thing. Yes, he had a record. Yes, he met Harry's Code, but… "It sounded to me that you wanted him dead. Isn't it better for your friend that he's dead? Isn't your friend safe now?"

For several minutes she stared at me.

"I wanted you to help me figure out how to arrest him. Just one night in jail would have given me time to talk her into going to a safe house. And none of that, Dexter, not one word I said meant I wanted him murdered. Not one." Her anger melted into pity. Why did she pity me? "Oh, Dexter. How many people have talked you into murdering someone for them?"

Suddenly I felt naked and exposed. Why wasn't she acting like the others? Why hadn't she run like Harry? Why wasn't seeing my dark passenger consuming her like it had Lila and Miguel?

"Three," I truthfully answered.

"Oh my God." She backed away, placing her hands on her stomach. She shook her head. "My God," was all she kept saying in a soft mutter barely heard over the distant traffic and breeze. Then she looked at me. A decision had been made. She approached me again.

"I profile criminals – serial killers in particular. I almost came to work here, before my baby was murdered. I've been on the law side for a long time. Did you know that about me?"

"I was told you were a criminal profiler, and now I have to wonder why you are keeping my secret. What do you want from me, Abriella?"

She shook her head. "I don't want anything from you."

"Then why are you keeping my secret? Why haven't you gone to the police? What do you want from me?"

"I'm keeping your secret because deep down I'm terrified of you. I've caught men like you so I know what you are capable of and it's frightening. I'm keeping your secret because of how you are with Rita and your kids. I keep it because the night you murdered Carter and the other man, you chose to save my life instead of taking it. You're frightening, but you're not all monster." She looked down, thinking for a moment. Her eyes turned back to me, holding mine. "I lied. There is something I want from you. I want you to make me a promise."

"A promise about what?"

"I want you to promise…" She reached down, taking my hands in hers and pushing our palms together, the start of a handshake promise. "Promise me on the life of your wife and children, that you will never, ever, kill anyone for me unless I say, 'Dexter, kill them.' Promise me."

"You want me to promise to never kill anyone unless you actually say that?"

"Even if they're trying to kill me. Promise me you won't do it unless I say those three words."

I pulled my hand back and shook my head. "I would stop someone from killing you."

That took her aback. "Why?"

Yes. Why? I thought about that for a moment. Then it came to me.

"You're angry that I murdered someone who deserved it and I know you'll never say those three words. We make strange friends, don't we?"

"Yeah, but what can you do?"

I didn't answer. There wasn't really anything to be done.

"Will you promise me, Dexter? Promise never to murder for me?"

I shook her hand. "I promise."

She let my hand go and stepped back. Was this how all friendships began? Each distrustful of the other, wrought with uncertainty, and at any moment one or the other might abandon the relationship? I wasn't sure how well I could adjust to this.

She walked over to the stairwell, but stopped on the top step and turned. "I saw a man on your screen when I came in. Is he for a case or are you planning another one?"

Was she going to try to talk me out of it? "He's next."

"I wish you…" She smiled a little and then shook her head just slightly. "Never mind that. It'd be stupid to ask you not to do it. How about instead… Be careful hunting. Your family needs you."

"I always am."

She turned and left.

Harry stepped up next to me.

"She's rare, isn't she?" I asked him.

Harry looked at me. "Time will tell, son."

He was right. All I could do was wait and see.


End file.
